


We Shall Conquer

by CapnThatguy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: British and Irish Quidditch League, Chudley Cannons, M/M, Plus an assortment of OCs to fill out the teams, Quidditch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 10:32:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13902192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CapnThatguy/pseuds/CapnThatguy
Summary: Oliver Wood is traded to the Chudley Cannons after an... unusual accident.  He decides that the only way to make this tolerable is to make the Cannons into a half-decent Quidditch team.  Current Cannons Keeper Cormac McLaggen isn't so sure.  People practice, games are played, and a legend (and maybe love) are born.  Little over 15,000 words, mostly Quidditch with a bit of cute stuff.





	1. Welcome to the Cannons

Oliver Wood opened his eyes blearily to find the wallpaper of St. Mungo’s laid out above him. The light was fading outside the window, but he had no idea what day it was. The last thing he remembered was playing the Hollyhead Harpies in the first round of the league cup. He coughed and tried to sit up.  
  
“Oh, goodness!” The stout Healer Wood had missed in the corner of the room stood up with a lurch and hurried over to the bed, grabbing a glass of water from a table. “You’re finally awake! He’s finally awake!” This she called out to the hall behind her as she handed Wood the water and helped push the pillows into a comfortable position. “How are you feeling dearie? Any fever? Pains?”  
  
“No, I’m alright, I think,” Wood muttered. “Could you speak up a little? I’m having trouble hearing you.” The Healer pursed her lips at this, but any comment forthcoming was interrupted by three people entering the room.  
  
The first two were Wood’s parents, looking worried and relieved at the same time. His father stopped a few feet from the bed while his mother threw her mousy frame into Wood’s chest, crying happily.  
  
“Oh, I’m so glad you’re alright, Ollie,” she sobbed. Wood patted her awkwardly on the back as she cried and held his shoulders. “Gelebrand, come here and hug your son,” she snapped suddenly. Wood’s father jumped, then came to sit at the end of the bed and hesitantly patted his leg.  
  
“How did the game go? Did we win? Who do we play next?” Wood directed his questions at the man who had entered the room just behind his parents: Philbert Deverill, manager of Puddlemere United.  
  
Everyone in the room was silent. The Healer took the opportunity to excuse herself. Wood’s mother started muttering something, likely her usual complaints about her son’s obsession with Quidditch, but his father stopped her. “Martha, he needs to know.” The silence broken, Deverill spoke up. “Well, er, you see my boy-“  
  
“Spit it out, boss. If we lost, I’ll live.” He wasn’t too sure about that – he only had one more year in his contract with Puddlemere, and as this was his first year out of the reserves, he needed to prove himself – but he continued. “Clearly something happened, or I wouldn’t be here. Bludger to the head again? Happened to me in my first ever game.”  
  
“It’s… a bit more than that,” Deverill continued. Wood noticed his parents wincing slightly as he spoke, but couldn’t understand why. “You were jinxed. Something quite nasty. Healer still haven’t been able to figure out what exactly it was Gwenog did to you, and it’s been nearly a month.”  
  
“A MONTH?” Wood tried to shoot out of bed, but was stymied by his parents sitting on either side of him, pinning the sheets to the mattress, and fell back onto the pillow heavily. “But… the league…”  
  
“Already done with, lad. If it helps, we did manage to win the game. Lost to the Montrose Magpies in the next round, but they ended up winning the cup, so no foul there.”  
  
Wood sighed. A month! The entire League cup, gone! And along with it any chance to prove to the team that he truly deserved to be there on the team with them. Wood could feel that primal roaring in his chest, that need to play Quidditch, swirling inside him, but he knew it wouldn’t have an escape for another three months, until the next season started back up.  
  
“There’s… something else, dear,” his mother said, taking a shaky breath. “Whatever that foul woman did to you – well –“ She picked up a hand mirror off the end table and gave in to Wood. He stared at his own reflection incredulously.  
  
Sprouting out of each ear was a perfectly formed, six-inch long tree.  
  
A branch less than an inch across stuck out of his ear canals, curving upward and branching out into several smaller limbs once they cleared his ears. They then spread out into tiny green leaves just level with the top of his head. Wood raised a trembling hand up to his face to feel it, and his fingers brushed the foliage. It was real.  
  
“What- who did this?”  
  
“Didn’t I say already? It was Gwenog Jones. When that woman threatens to curse someone, she bloody well means it.” Wood now realized that Deverill was speaking quite loudly, but the branches in his ears muffled the sound. “You’re lucky that’s all there is. Those things started sprouting like mad the moment the jinx hit you. They were half the size of the Whomping Willow before anyone managed to get to you. The healers managed to prune them down to this size, but whenever they try to cut any more, it grows right back”  
  
“But surely there’s a, a potion or a spell or something that would get rid of them?”  
  
“They tried, dear,” his mother said, consoling hand on his shoulder. The Healers say that they’ve taken root inside your skull. If they tried to take them out, you’d be deaf at best, and at, worse, you’d go mad.”  
  
“On the bright side, son, now you’re Wood through and through,” his father said with a halfhearted chuckle. Martha shot him a glare that should have disintegrated him on the spot, but he merely sunk his face down to stare at his boots.  
  
Wood looked at his reflection again. This wasn’t so terrible, he supposed. Yes, the initial surprise of having trees growing out of his head was certainly something, but once you looked at them, they really weren’t that bad looking. “They shouldn’t stop me from playing, at least,” he murmured.  
  
“Ah, well, about that.” Deverill hesitated for a moment as Wood’s expression turned to iron in the mirror, then continued. “You see, over the last few years, I’ve been really focused on the team’s image; the new robes, the haircut restrictions, you know. And, I’m sure you can understand, having a Keeper with great bloody branches coming out of his head wouldn’t exactly be good for that image. Besides, the leaves clash with the robes. We can’t have that now.” Deverill pointedly looked away from the bed as he spoke, while Wood’s steely gaze turned towards him.  
  
“So you’re saying I’m off the team,” Wood said flatly. “No more Puddlemere, no more Quidditch.”  
  
“Not no more quidditch, no,” Deverill hurriedly added. “A-ah, another team graciously offered to buy out your contract.”  
  
“What other team?”  
  
Deverill hesitated once more, still not making eye contact.  
  
“What. Other. Team.”  
  
“T-the Cannons.”  
  
In the next room over, the wizard lying in bed thought that a cannon had, in fact, gone off.

  


 

  


Three days later, Wood sat at a table in the Leaky Cauldron, waiting impatiently for Ragmar Dorkins, manager of the Chudley cannons, the well-established worst team in the British and Irish Quidditch league, to arrive to discuss terms. His tea remained on the table, cooling and undrunk. His foot tapped impatiently on the leg of his chair, and he swore he could feel the leaves from his ear-trees bobbing in time. Finally, he saw Ragmar hurry through the door, dripping wet from the rain outside.  
Ragmar was an older man, balding, with large ears that made his baldness appear more prominent, and a large graying beard that did nothing to deflect from his exceptionally toothy grin. “Ah, there’s my new keeper,” he rasped, hurrying over to Wood’s table without bothering to cast a spell to dry himself off. Wood didn’t bother to stand, nor did Ragmar bother to hide his ogling of Wood’s new foliage. Wood wiped his now-damp hand on his robe as Ragmar settled his bulk into the other chair. “Now, the owl Mister Deverill sent me said you had some, er, additional terms you wished to add to your contract? If this is about money, I’m very sorry to say that-“  
  
Wood held up his hand to stop him. “This isn’t about money. The current rate on my contract will do. I do, however, have a few other requests. First, though, a question. I had heard that you had already gotten a new Keeper after you lost to Kenmare in the first round of the Cup. Who was it? Would I know them? What’s happening to them if you’re hiring me?”  
  
“Don’t worry about it,” Ragmar said, shaking his head. “You might know him, yes, but he, ah, wasn’t exactly meshing well with the rest of the team. He’ll stay on reserve, in case your… condition turns out to be an issue on the pitch. I’ll introduce you to everyone on the team soon, of course.”  
  
“Yes, of course,” Wood said with a frown. “Now, my terms. One, I’m made team captain.”  
  
“Done. Galvin never wanted to be Captain anyway. He’ll be happy to let you take the responsibility away from him.”  
  
“Two,” Wood said, not listening, “I want you to change the motto back to ‘We Shall Conquer.’ That whole ‘cross our fingers and hope for the best’ thing really isn’t good for morale”  
  
“I suppose,” Ragmar said slowly. “Would we keep the pennants the same, or change them too?”  
  
“A closed fist would be fine.”  
  
Ragmar sighed. “A bit expensive, but we would hopefully make it back in sales from the few fans we have left.”  
  
“Three, I want your full authorization to schedule practices as often and as long as I choose until the season begins.”  
  
“That is… acceptable. Anything else?”  
  
“That’s all.”  
  
“Well then.” Ragmar offered Wood his hand once more, and Wood took it. “If I may ask,” Ragmar said, “Why do you want these things?”  
  
“Because,” Wood said, grinning widely, “Next year, the Chudley Cannons are going to win the League Cup.”  
  
The Leaky Cauldron was silent for several seconds. Wood hadn’t noticed how loud he was speaking. Then Ragmar threw his head back in a guffaw so loud and exuberant he fell over the back of his chair. Wood stared at him on the floor as he continued to laugh, heels drumming against the stone floor. Finally, Ragmar looked up, eyes streaming, and met Wood’s gaze. His smile fell immediately.  
  
“My god. You’re serious.”  
  
“I am. If I’m going to be stuck with the Chudley Cannons, I’m bloody well going to make them a team worth being stuck with.”  
  
Ragmar slowly hefted himself from the ground. “Very well. We shall see what you can do. We get our pitch back from its post-season cleaning on Wednesday. It’s Monday today, so I’ll see you in two days.” He nodded to Wood, then turned and left the pub. Wood reached into his bag and pulled out parchment, quill, and ink.  
  
He had a lot of work to do.

  


 

  


Wood and Ragmar marched across the violently orange Quidditch pitch. Or rather, Wood marched, and Ragmar tried to keep up. The team was lined up beneath the home goals, managing to look somewhat disheveled despite being in full uniforms. Wood carried the case of balls in one hand, ignoring the angry rattling of the Bludgers, and his Cleansweep Twelve over his shoulder.  
  
“Now, I took a look at your new practice schedule, and I must say, the team isn’t going to like it,” Ragmar said, wringing his hands. “They’re used to only practicing twice a week. Now to suddenly start practicing every day? That’s too much.”  
“No, It’s exactly what they – what we – need.” Honestly, Wood wasn’t sure how long it could be maintained – Puddlemere had had someone practicing every day, but it was generally done on rotation to prevent fatigue. But Wood had dreamed of being able to have daily practices ever since he had been made captain of the Gryffindor team. Besides, if he later switched to every other day, they would all be grateful for it.  
  
“And what’s this note in the schedule, that practice will end when you decide? Surely you don’t plan on having them out through the night?  
  
“I will if they make me,” Wood said. “If I feel they’re improving, I’ll call it in before the sun sets. But they have to deserve it.” They were almost to the team now. “Are you going to introduce me, or not?”  
  
Ragmar jumped, not realizing how quickly they had crossed the pitch. Wood didn’t really need the introduction – he had done plenty of research on the team the last two days, aside from having played them last season.  
  
“First is our seeker, Galvin Gudgeon.” Galvin was a short, wiry man, as is common among seekers, whose tousled blond hair was only just starting to recede on the sides. He smiled nervously as he shook Wood’s hand. Wood had not played against him at Hogwarts, as he had been a seventh year during Wood’s first, but he had watched a disastrous game against Gryffindor wherein he had knocked the Snitch out of Charlie Weasley’s hand only to have him catch it again immediately, causing Madame Hooch to rule that it did in fact count as catching the Snitch twice and blowing Hufflepuff’s two-hundred-point lead.  
  
“T-thank you, Wood.”  
  
“For what”  
  
“Taking the Captain position. I only got it through seniority, but really, I-I’m not cut out for it.”  
  
“Next are our beaters,” Ragmar continued. “First is Gaspard Draganov.” Gaspard was an enormous man, nearly seven feet tall. He had a broad, placid face, and hands so big they completely enveloped his as they shook. Wood suspected there was least a little bit of giant’s blood in his veins. “Did you play with Krum?” Wood asked. Gaspard stared at him blankly. “Victor Krum. Same team at school?” Wood knew Draganov had attended Durmstrang, but very little of there records were in English, so details were sketchy. Draganov stared at him a moment longer before he seemed to understand, then shook his head. “No, no. Other team. Always lost.” Wood nodded. Draganov’s English was questionable at best.  
  
“Next we have Sabine Lasueur, our other beater.”  
  
“Er, which one?”  
  
Two women stood close to each other, hands held, faces together, barely registering that introductions were taking place. One was tall, nearly as tall as Wood, with a square jaw and dark hair neatly tied back in a ponytail. The other was nearly a foot shorter, with close-cut red hair and a wild canvas of freckles across her cheeks.  
  
“The taller one,” Ragmar said. “The other is Aurora, one of our chasers.”  
  
“Related?”  
  
“Married, actually,” Sabine said, stepping forward defiantly. “Just two months ago.” Her French accent was prominent, although her English seemed better than Draganov’s. Wood had been impressed to find in his research that she held the record for most Bludger blocks in a single game at Beauxbatons.  
  
“Is that going to be a problem, sir?” Aurora stepped up to her wife’s side and took her hand again. Her Irish accent was as prominent as Sabine’s French.  
  
“Not at all,” Wood said. “Just keep the mooning at each other off the pitch, if you please.” They both blushed a little. Wood had had trouble finding information on Aurora in his research, and a thought now crossed his mind. “Say, did you change your name when you got married?”  
  
Aurora nodded. “Used to be Bradley. Played for Ravenclaw. Think I scored on you a couple times.” She smiled wryly at this.  
  
“That you did,” Wood said, remembering the games in question.  
  
“Next is Dragomir Gorgovitch,” Ragmar said. Wood sighed inwardly. Gorgovitch, holder of the record for most Quaffle drops in a season, was the player who Wood suspected needed the most work. The bushy Russian appeared the picture of confidence as he shook hands. Or at least, he appeared as confident as one could when mostly obscured by beard. His hair was down to his shoulders, and even his eyebrows appears to curl into rings, from what Wood could see.  
  
“Good to meet you. First thing, you’re shaving down that beard,” Wood said.  
  
Gorgovitch’s smile slipped. “But it is my good luck charm!”  
  
“Really,” Wood said flatly. “What kind of luck has it been bringing? Nothing Quidditch related, I would think.”  
  
Gorgovitch frowned, stroking the beard. Wood took the opportunity to move on.  
  
The final chaser stepped up before Ragmar could introduce her. She was of average height, with a thin mouth that appeared stuck halfway between a scowl and a smirk. Her hair was electric blue and clashed horrendously with her Cannon robes. “Rosetta Rosen. Etta for short.” Wood shook her proffered hand.  
  
“You didn’t attend Hogwarts, did you,” Woods asked.  
  
“No, sir. I went to Ilvermorny, in America. My parents are British, but we moved to Chicago when I was young. I came back after I graduated.”  
  
“How’s the Quidditch in America?”  
  
“Get me in the air and you’ll see.”  
  
Wood chuckled. “I’m sure we will. What’s with the hair? You a metamorphmagus?”  
  
Etta shook her head. “Nah, it’s just spite for my parents having named me Pink Pink. You’re not going to make me get rid of it, are you?”  
  
“No, no. I’m not going to complain about aesthetics,” Wood said, gesturing to his ears. Gorgovitch, who had been listening, sputtered indignantly. “If you can’t see the Quaffle, that’s beyond aesthetics,” Wood added loudly.  
  
“I was going to ask about those,” Etta said. “Do they hurt?”  
  
“Not unless something hits them,” Wood said. “Even then, it’s not much worse than getting your ears boxed.”  
  
“Well, at least you’ve got the right name for those.”  
  
“Don’t start.” Wood looked back at Ragmar. “Now, where’s your other keeper?”  
  
“Sorry I’m late!” A deep, confident voice boomed across the pitch. “My uncle held me up, you know how he is.”  
  
Wood turned to stare at the new arrival, recognizing the voice. The owner of the voice, in turn, stopped dead upon seeing Wood.  
  
“Cormac McLaggen,” Wood said, “fancy seeing you here.”  
  
“Wood.” McLaggen stood stiffly and glared at him. “What are you doing here?”  
  
“Hadn’t you heard? I’m joining the Cannons. I’m the new captain.”  
  
McLaggen’s face reddened, and her strode forward to grab Wood by the front of his shirt. “No, no no! I would have been Gryffindor Keeper for years if not for you. And now you show up here, and you’re going to take this away from me again?”  
“I was always the better Keeper, McLaggen, and you know it. Don’t worry, you’ll still get plenty of practice time. I’ll need to be watching everyone else’s form, and I can’t do that from the goals all the time.”  
  
McLaggen laughed in Wood’s face. Etta and Ragmar made as though to break them apart, but Wood waved them down. “Practice? What does that matter? You’ll be the one playing every game. And besides, it’s not like these idiots will ever manage to win a game. What makes you think you’ll be able to do what a hundred years of teams haven’t?”  
  
“Confidence,” Wood said. “That’s all we need. Confidence, and practice.”  
  
McLaggen let go of Wood’s shirt and spit on the pitch. “We’ll see about that.” He took a few steps away, then turned back around. “And what’s with those things coming out of your ears?”  
  
“I was jinxed. There’s not anything I can do about it, so I’m just going to have to live with it.”  
  
McLaggen smirked. “They look ridiculous, you know.”  
  
Wood’s hand instinctively went to touch the branches. He managed to stop himself with his hand on his jaw. “I do. If you’re not going to be civil about it, you’re welcome to leave.”  
  
McLaggen simmered for a moment, but finally took his place in line with the others.  
  
“Good,” Wood said. He turned to face the team, and his voice took on his trademark authoritative tone. “Now, ladies and gentlemen. We have a long road ahead of us. The Chudley Cannons have been bottom of the league nine years of the last ten. We haven’t won the League Cup in over a century. But this season, things change!” He let the case with the Quidditch balls drop for emphasis, and everyone jumped as it hit the ground with a thunk. The Bludgers continued their angry buzzing in counterpoint to Wood’s speech. “I’ve played against most of you. I’ve read your files, seen what you’re all capable of. You have potential. You’re good players. But you won’t apply yourselves because you don’t think you’re good enough to make the Cannons into something other than a laughingstock. But you are! You’re good enough to make the Cannons a team worth rooting for again. We shall train. We shall win. And we shall conquer!”  
  
Everyone but McLaggen cheered. Even Ragmar managed to only sound a little disingenuous in his cheer. Wood bent down to open the case. He carefully cupped the Snitch in his hand as he undid the strap, then approached Galvin.  
  
“First thing first.” He placed the Snitch in Galvin’s hand. The Seeker looked down at it as though astounded at the sensation of the ball trying to escape. “You need to get used to the sensation of catching the Snitch again. If I recall, it’s been three seasons since you actually caught it in a game.” Galvin nodded resignedly. “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to take the Snitch, go back to the locker room. And let it go. Then you’re going to catch it.”  
  
“N-no broom?”  
  
“No broom. Just you, the Snitch, and your reflexes. I’ve put a charm on this Snitch that will let me know how many times it’s been touched. You and I makes two. I don’t want to see you back out here until you’ve caught it ten more times, you hear? Now go!”  
  
“Yes sir!” Galvin took off at a jog, clutching the Snitch tightly.  
  
“Gudgeon,” Wood called after him. The Seeker stopped and turned. “Make sure the windows are closed before you release it. Wouldn’t want it escaping now, would we?” Galvin saluted with his free hand, then hurried back across the pitch. The others watched him go.  
  
“I’ve never heard of a charm like that,” Etta said. “I would think that it would mess with the enchantments already on the Snitch.”  
  
“Probably,” Wood said with an exaggerated shrug that caused his leaves to tremble. “Good thing I didn’t try then. But he doesn’t know that, as long as no one tells him.” The Lasueurs giggled. “Alright everyone, brooms up! McLaggen, you take the goals for now. Chasers, let’s see you run your formations. Draganov, Lasueur – no not, you, the other one, Sabine – leave your bats for now. I’ll add the Bludgers later. I just want you running interference. Gorgovitch, catch!” Wood threw Gorgovitch the Quaffle. He promptly dropped it. Wood sighed.

 


	2. Training Days

“Time out, time out!”  
  
Wood dropped down from the height he had been watching. “Come on, Sabine. If the Chasers are going to get any practice dodging Bludgers, you actually have to hit some toward them. And yes, that includes toward your wife.”  
  
Two hours into practice, and Wood was getting exasperated. To McLaggen’s credit, he hadn’t let any goals in, but really that was as to the Chasers’ detriment as his own benefit. Gorgovitch had dropped the Quaffle a dozen times already, the Lasueurs couldn’t stop looking at each other long enough to do anything productive, and Rosen winced so hard anytime she could even see a Bludger that she had nearly crashed twice. Draganov was doing alright, smashing the Bludgers so hard they took nearly a minute to remember where their targets were, but had to be given single-word commands in order for him to understand anything. Sabine flew up to Wood, expression already pouty.  
  
“It’s so hard, though. Every time I see her in the Bludger’s path, I hesitate. What if it hit her? What if it hurt her?”  
  
“If she can’t dodge it, she’s not doing her job. Besides, the medic is in the tent nearby, and while the Bludgers certainly hurt, they won’t do any permanent damage.”  
  
“Why can’t Gaspard pretend to be the other team’s Beater? I’d much rather protect my teammates.”  
  
“Because Dragonov’s got the brains and the English skills of your average mastiff. If you know a way to get him to understand anything more than ‘come’, ‘stop’, and ‘protect’, please tell me.”  
  
Sabine huffed, but flew off. “Resume,” Wood shouted. The Bludgers began careening through the air once more. Sabine knocked one flying toward her in Wood’s general direction with a backhand swing, but Wood flew upward and out of its path. “Hawkshead Formation, Chasers! Keep circling, and pass the Quaffle around. Keeps the enemy Chasers and the Keeper on their toes.”  
  
The three Chasers started toward the goalposts from the midpoint of the pitch, spiraling around each other and dropping the Quaffle to the person below whenever they were at the top of the spiral. Ideally, they would be spinning twice as fast, and the passes would be random, but it would do for now. Wood spotted Sabine, who had thankfully decided to take him seriously, spiking a Bludger into the formation from above. Draganov managed to get it the way, batting the heavy ball away with his leather-clad forearm rather than his bat. Wood made note of the technique, although he doubted anyone other than the massive Bulgarian would be able to pull it off.  
  
Wood also noticed the second Bludger coming up from below the Chasers. “Watch the Bludger,” he shouted. They all glanced down briefly before scattering about fifty feet from the goal, Rosen in possession of the Quaffle. Draganov, still regaining his balance, took the Bludger in the sole of his boot, spinning a full circle in the air but managing not to fall off his broom. As it came back for a second strike, he hit it so hard it buried itself several inches into the dirt of the pitch.  
  
Returning his attention to the Chasers, Wood noticed that Rosen was still speeding toward the goal. Aurora and Gorgovitch had pulled up and were watching her. Etta’s face was tight with focus as she sped toward McLaggen. The Keeper steadied himself in front of the center goal, but looked bored. Etta zigzagged through the air, and suddenly there was a flash of light surrounding her. As the light cleared, Wood was astounded to see two of her flying toward McLaggen, ten feet apart. McLaggen gaped for a brief moment before his instincts took over and he dived to the right as the two Rosens wound up to shoot.  
  
The right Rosen winked out of existence.  
  
McLaggen dived through empty air as the remaining Rosen easily tossed the Quaffle through the left hoop. Aurora whooped and flew over to her fellow Chaser to slap her on the back, quickly followed by Sabine. Wood blew his whistle to stop the Bludgers and flew down to join them.  
  
“That was quite the trick, Rosen,” Wood said as he got within earshot. He looked over at McLaggen. “How did the copy look from your direction?”  
  
“Identical,” McLaggen said through gritted teeth. “Couldn’t tell them apart until it was too late.”  
  
“I double-checked the rulebook,” Etta said, beaming, “It doesn’t count as Quaffle-pocking if the copy lasts less than two seconds. I’ll say, though, it was a tricky bit of magic getting a Mirror Charm to dismiss itself automatically like that. I only managed the trick last week, otherwise I’d have been using it already.”  
  
“Well consider me impressed, Rosen. Alright, take ten, everyone. Rosen, see if you can’t teach anyone else that trick. It would be nice to have that up our sleeves. I’m going to go check on our dear Seeker.”  
  
“Bloody hell, I’d forgotten about him,” Wood heard Aurora say as he dove toward the grass of the pitch. He hopped off his broom and strode to the locker room door.  
  
As Wood slipped through the door, opening it as little as possible to avoid letting out the Snitch if it was loose, he thought for a moment that Gudgeon had simply left. The locker room was still. Wood thought he heard the characteristic trill of the Snitch somewhere to his left, but couldn’t see it. After looking around for a few moments, he spotted his Seeker crouched at the end of a row of lockers. He was perfectly still, watching a spot across the room. He appeared to have conjured up a butterfly net for himself. Wood took a deep breath. “Gudgeon!”  
  
The Seeker jump so hard that his feet came out from under him and he landed on his behind. He started babbling as soon as he got his breath back.  
  
“Sorry, sir, I’ve only caught it once so far, it keeps hiding under the benches and I can’t get down there before it flies off again, please, I swear, I’m trying, it just-“  
  
Wood cut him off. “First, put that bloody net away, that’s not going to do you any good.” Galvin waved his wand sullenly, and the net vanished. Wood took another breath, trying to choose his words carefully. “When I was in school, I had the great honor of having Harry Potter as my seeker.” Galvin stared, wide-eyed. “If he had been able to devote his time to the game, I truly believe that he would have been the greatest Seeker Quidditch has ever seen.” He inwardly lamented the loss. “Now, I saw the expression on Potter’s face when he first caught the Snitch. It was an expression of pure wonder, a realization that he had found his calling, his passion. When I gave you the Snitch before sending you in here, I saw the same expression on your face. Seeking is in your blood, Gudgeon. It’s who you are, and I believe that you could be great.”  
  
Galvin stared as him, slack jawed, for a full ten seconds in silence. Just as Wood began wondering if he had said something wrong, the Seeker’s face contorted into a grimace and his hand shot out toward Wood’s face. Wood ducked, shouting in pain as Gudgeon’s grasping hand gripped a handful of leaves attached to Wood’s ears. When he glanced up, however, there was no second swing coming. Gudgeon was holding the Snitch, which had apparently chosen that moment to land on top of Wood’s ear trees. "Well then,” Wood said, straightening back up. “I guess some of its birdlike tendencies might prove useful. Put it back, see if it stays.” He gestured toward his right ear, as the left was still smarting. Galvin held the Snitch between two fingers and gently nestled it into the branches. Sure enough, Wood could see the Snitch settle in from the corner of his eye. No wanting to disturb it, the two men simply raised their eyebrows at each other.  
  
The door to the locker room slammed open. The Snitch flew off, and Galvin dived after it, upending a bench and planting into the ground. Wood turned to see McLaggen striding toward him, red-faced. Wood could almost see steam coming out of his ears to match his own branches. McLaggen stopped inches from Wood.  
  
“That move was absolutely illegal! There’s no way a ref would allow that in a real game!”  
  
“Aw, are your feelings hurt because a woman scored a goal on you?” Wood gently pushed McLaggen to a reasonable distance and shook his head. “I’ve got the rulebook memorized. She’s right. She’ll have to be careful with it, because a particularly strict referee would likely find some way to call foul, but it is technically legal. We’re going to need every trick in the book if we want to win the Cup, and that one’s definitely going in the playbook. I think’s we’ll call it the Rosen Ruse.”  
McLaggen sputtered as Wood turned back to Galvin, who was struggling back up from the floor. He held the Snitch in both hands, and was sporting the start of a magnificent black eye where he had hit the overturned bench. “See, Gudgeon? You’re doing better already. Run get the medic to fix up that eye before it starts swelling, then back into the locker room with you. Three down, seven to go.”  
  
Galvin nodded enthusiastically, then hurried from the locker room, still holding the Snitch in both hands before him like a toddler with a particularly slimy slug. Wood sauntered after him, patting a still-furious McLaggen on the shoulder. “Come on, then. Now that they’ve managed to score against you, it’s time to put myself in the goals. Take my spot above them, call out the Bludgers, and watch any dropped Quaffles to see whose fault it is. We can break practice today when they manage to score against me.”  
  
Wood walked out of the locker room without glancing back. Shuddering, McLaggen followed.

  


**Two weeks later**

  


Wood stared down Dragonov and the Lasueurs as they flew toward him in tight formation. Aurora gripped the Quaffle tightly, while the two Beaters circled her, warding off Bludgers as well as Rosen and Gorgovitch, who were acting as the opposing team’s chasers. McLaggen, wielding a spare beater’s bat with ferocity, hammered Bludgers down on the group. Aurora’s full focus was one the center goalpost as the three approached. When they got within fifty feet, Sabine dropped directly behind her wife. At thirty feet, Aurora tossed the Quaffle into the air and veered hard left, while Draganov veered right. Sabine burst out above the two of them as they flew away, staring hard at the left goal, bat raised. Wood dived left, but at the last moment, Sabine adjusted her aim, and her bat slammed the Quaffle through the center hoop Wood had just left.  
  
“Brilliant,” Wood shouted, swinging down to grab the Quaffle before it fell to the ground. It had taken a dozen tries at this before they had managed to not crash into each other, and a dozen more before they actually hit the mark, but they had done it! Wood was pleased Sabine had thought of this loophole – while only one Chaser was allowed in the scoring zone, there was no such restriction on Beaters, nor was there any rule preventing the Beaters from hitting the Quaffle with their bats. The Lasueuers were giggling and kissing as Wood rose back to the level of the goalposts. A whoop from above caused everyone to look up. Gudgeon flew with his first upraised, having caught the Snitch for the second time today. This was a first for him, although had had been managing to catch the Snitch at least once three days running, now.  
  
Everyone was improving, if not quite as quickly as Wood had hoped. Draganov had learned a few more commands in English, and Gorgovitch had managed to only drop the Quaffle twice yesterday. Rosen had only crashed once in the past week, and only because a Bludger actually did hit her. Aurora and Sabine had finally figured out that watching each other’s backs didn’t prevent them from actually playing Quidditch, although they still sometimes neglected their other teammates.  
Luckily, Wood had finally gotten answers from the owls he had sent before starting with the Cannons. As if on cue, a voice rang out from the pitch.  
  
“Oi! I hear you lot need some lessons!”  
  
Two figures walked across the pitch, brooms in hand. Wood gestured to the team to join him as he flew down to meant them. In front was a very pregnant Ginny Weasley. It was she whose shout had carried all the way up to them. Behind her, sporting a full beard which somehow only heightened his hawkish demeanor, was Victor Krum. A series of gasps and surprised murmurs ran through the Cannons. To Wood’s amusement, the men seemed to be focused on Krum, while the women were much more excited by Weasley’s presence.  
  
“How on earth did you get them to show up?” McLaggen had hurried up to Wood and was hissing into his ear.  
  
“Unlike you, I actually still have friends from my school days, not just cronies and hangers-on to your uncle.”  
  
“Alright, Weasley, sure, but how the bloody hell did you get Krum?” McLaggen stopped suddenly, before murmuring, “Hermione.”  
  
“There you go,” Wood said. “Say, didn’t you have a thing for her back in school?”  
  
McLaggen’s mouth snapped shut, and he stamped off to join the others, who had already crowded around the two guests.  
  
“So do you have a name for that play yet?” Ginny asked as Wood rejoined the group.  
  
Aurora and Sabine both opened their mouths, but Sabine was a little faster.  
  
“ _La fleur Lasueur_ ,” she said in her lilting French. She glanced down as Aurora as the latter’s mouth closed sullenly. “What is the matter, you had a different name?”  
  
“Yeah, but yours is much better,” Aurora said. “I’m just mad I didn’t think of it.” Sabine laughed and kissed the top of her head.  
  
“Not bad at all,” Ginny said, before turning to Wood and giving him a hug. “How are you, you big oaf?”  
  
“Doing well,” Wood said. “How about you? How’s the child treating you?” He gestured down at her belly.  
  
“Much better than James did. That little goblin was hell to carry. Only trouble with this one is my back, but that can be fixed with a spell and a good massage.”  
  
“Are you alright to fly? I wouldn’t want you hurting yourself for my sake.”  
  
“I’ll be fine, Wood.” Ginny took him by the shoulders and centered him in front of her before taking a good look at his ears. “I couldn’t be-leaf it when I heard what Gwenog had done. I’m surprised it didn’t make you branch out into a different career.” Wood rolled his eyes as the women laughed uproariously. Ginny tapped the trunks in sync. “At least she didn’t ruin your symme-tree.”  
  
“You’ve been saving those up, haven’t you,” Wood said as the cackling continued to his left.  
  
Ginny smirked. “I’ve been writing them down as I thought of them since I got your owl. Now, enough pleasan-trees. Get me the others and get Krum started with that idiot you call a Seeker, and we can start this practice off.”  
  
Wood turned to his right, where Krum was conversing in rapid Bulgarian with Draganov. It seemed to be having only slightly more effect than speaking to him in English. Gorgovitch seemed to be straining to use his Russian to understand any of the conversation, to little effect. Gudgeon and McLaggen stared at them blankly.  
  
“Gorgovitch, Draganov, McLaggen, go introduce yourselves to Weasley,” Wood ordered.  
  
“I already know her,” McLaggen complained. “I’ve played on the same team as her, you haven’t even done that.”  
  
“Try to make a better impression than that time, then. Or at least help Draganov get where he should.” The hulking man was staring blankly between Krum and Wood. Gorgovitch took him by the elbow and led him toward the ladies. With only the two Seekers remaining, Wood was now able to shake Krum’s hand.  
  
“Again, thank you so, so much for agreeing to this,” Wood said, bowing his head slightly.  
  
“Of course, of course. It is always good to train the new generation of seekers, no?” His distinct lack of glance over to Gudgeon only emphasized the fact that the latter was nearly a decade older. “Besides, this gives me a good reason to come to England. I have been meaning to go visit Her-mee-on since her little girl was born; I wish to see if she has gotten her mother’s smarts or her father’s…whatever he has.”  
  
Wood stifled a snort of amusement; Ginny, overhearing, did not, and let out a whipcrack laugh of mirth. Krum turned to Galvin. “You are my trainee, yes?”  
  
“Yes, I am, Mister Krum sir. Galvin Gudgeon,” he said breathlessly, taking Krum’s proffered hand. He had apparently forgotten that he was still holding the Snitch from earlier, and it flitted out of Wood’s sight. Krum’s free hand snapped out into the air, and the Snitch reappeared in his fingers.  
  
“Lesson one,” Krum murmured, “always keep your focus on the Snitch. Unless you are about to die, nothing else matters. Even then, only a fraction of your attention should move from your goal.”  
  
Wood saw from the expression on Krum’s face that he wouldn’t be applying anything useful to the Seeker’s conversation, so he turned back to the rest of the team. Ginny spotted Krum’s expression as well, and her tone suddenly shifted from jovial and chatty to hardened and commanding. “All right you louts! I want ten laps around the pitch from all of you! Last one back gets a drubbing they won’t soon forget!”  
  
Nobody moved for a moment, surprised at the sudden shift in mood. Ginny whipped out her wand. “You want to test me? I’ve beaten Gwenog Jones in a duel, and you see the results of her handiwork every day! You lot thought Wood was pushing you hard? You haven’t seen anything yet.”  
  
Everyone scrambled to grab their brooms. Ginny rounded on Wood, who hadn’t yet moved. “Don’t you stay rooted to the ground! Just because you’re the one who brought me here doesn’t mean you’re exempt. Go on, go!”  
Wood leapt on his broom and took off at the front of the pack, Ginny laughing wildly below.

  
  


Three grueling days of training later, and even Wood was willing to give the team a day off. He felt like he could sleep for a year. Ginny had not been kidding about being a rougher taskmaster than Wood. McLaggen had ended up getting her promised drubbing when they had begun, and he’d had to go to the medic before he could even sit on his broom again. Even Gudgeon, who hadn’t participated in Ginny’s trials, was exhausted. While Krum’s training was less physically demanding, his insistence on perfect mental focus was as exhausting as any drill.  
  
The improvement in the team, however, was tangible. Although they were so tired they could barely hold the Quaffle, the Chasers felt more coordinated than ever before. By the third day of training, the Beaters weren’t letting any Bludgers within ten feet of their teammates. Wood had learned some new tricks himself, when Ginny had conjured up a dozen Quaffles and threw them all at once, threatening to hit him with a Biting Hex for each one he didn’t block. Now, lying splayed out on a locker room bench, the rest of the team gone home for the evening, Wood felt at peace.  
  
“Um, excuse me, Wood.”  
  
Wood rolled his head back on the bench slightly and stared at the upside-down form of Ragmar Dorkins. He was holding a stack of papers and looking nervous. Wood quickly pushed himself back to a sitting position, wincing as he knocked an ear-tree against the bench. “Good to see you sir. Have you been looking in on our practices? What do you think?”  
  
Ragmar nodded distractedly. “Oh, yes, everything’s looking very good. I might not even faint if we win a game.”  
  
“What do you have there?” Wood nodded at the papers Ragmar was holding.  
  
“Right, right, I wanted to give you a copy of the schedule for next season. Just finalized today; figured you’d like to plan your practice with this in mind.”  
  
“Oh, yes, definitely.” Wood got up as fast as his aching muscles would allow as took the sheet Ragmar gave him. “Not bad at all,” he muttered as he perused the page. “Opener against Wigtown, they’re not much better than us. Not playing anyone in the top of the standings until a few weeks in, and only one really tough stretch, by the looks of it. Ballycastle, Montrose, and Tutshill all in a row is rough, but that’s not until January, so we’ve got plenty of time. Really, Ragmar, how did you manage all this?”  
  
“It actually wasn’t that hard,” the manager said, looking abashed. “Puddlemere was willing to swap several games with us, likely as an apology for trading you off. Between that, and, er, one additional acquiescence, we ended up with quite a nice schedule.”  
  
“Additional acquiescence?” Wood had heard the hesitation in Ragmar’s voice. “Of what sort?”  
  
“Well, there’s one additional game on the schedule. Won’t count in the standings. They’re calling it an exhibition match. Borrowed the idea from some Muggle sport, apparently.”  
  
“Who would-“ The words died in Wood’s mouth as he looked to the bottom of the page.  
  
The Chudley Cannons’ first match of the season would be against the Hollyhead Harpies, led by none other than the woman who had jinxed him, Gwenog Jones.

  
  


Two hours later, Wood was walking the streets of London, an address scribbled on the back of the league schedule. After several minutes of yelling at Ragmar for agreeing to such an idea, Wood had hurried home to change before Apparating in to London. Playing against the Harpies to start the season scared him – even if he couldn’t remember being jinxed, it had still happened, and he was worried his nerves would get the better of him. The Cannons had to win their first match of the season, or their confidence would break and they’d likely end up at the bottom of the league again. He had an idea of how to help this, but he would need help to pull it off.  
  
After a few more minutes, he found the address he was looking for. To Muggles on the street, the building looked like an unassuming stone high rise full of administrative offices. Wizards, however saw the lavish luxury flats that had been hidden there for wizarding use in the heart of downtown London. He entered the lobby, seemingly made entirely of marble and old oak, and made his way to a table on the left, where’s the tenant’s names were engraved on a bronze plaque. Wood found the name he wanted and pressed it with his forefinger. From a hole in the wall across from the table, a Buzzer appeared; an enchanted paper mouth, like a cross between a Howler and those memo birds they used at the ministry. “Who is calling,” it asked in a neutral tone.  
“Oliver Wood. Tell McLaggen I need a favor.”  
  
The Buzzer bobbed in acknowledgement and pushed itself back into the tube it had come from. After a minute of impatient waiting, it returned.  
  
“You know you can just speak into these as though we were face to face,” it said, now speaking in McLaggen’s voice. “What do you want? Taking my spot as Keeper wasn’t enough, now you have to come harass me at home, is that it?”  
“Please, McLaggen. I need your help. It’s for the good of the whole team.”  
  
The buzzer left, for longer this time. When it returned, McLaggen’s voice emanating from it sounded resigned. “Fine, fine, come on up. 12th floor.” The lift door opened to Wood’s left. He got in and waited as it rose.  
  
To Wood’s surprise, when the door opened, it did so not onto a hallway, but straight into the living room of a tastefully, if expensively, decorated suite. On the right, a painting of a field swayed in the breeze, with a man fishing in a small pond in the background, hung above a mahogany writing desk with an ornate gilded chair. To his left, a lifesize stone statue of a man in a loincloth, likely Greek in origin, flexed silently on its small plinth, muscles rippling. And if front of him, framed by a magnificent view of London, was Cormac McLaggen, half-laying in a dark leather armchair, wearing loose jeans and a shirt half unlaced in the front.  
  
“Well don’t you dress up nice,” McLaggen said, somewhat mockingly, but also sitting up a little. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in anything but Quidditch robes or the school uniform.”  
  
Wood, briefly distracted by both the view and the somewhat alarming about of hair on McLaggen’s chest, blushed and fingered his tie. “Yes, well, I was worried I might show up while you had some important guest over, so I wanted to be ready to make a good impression, just in case.”  
  
“No guests tonight, no. Weasley’s run us so hard the last few days I’d be surprised if I ever have the energy to host a dinner party.” He slouched back down into the chair, and gestured toward its twin across the room. “Go on, sit. What’s this favor you’re here about?”  
  
Wood silently handed McLaggen the game schedule, then took a seat as McLaggen read it.  
  
“Pretty good schedule, I’d say. What’s the problem?”  
  
“All the way at the bottom.”  
  
“An… exhibition match? What’s that?”  
  
“Some kind of pre-opener, meant to show off how good the team is by pitting them against a weak opponent. See who it’s against though.”  
  
“The HARPIES? What kind of idiot does Dorkins think he is?”  
  
“Don’t worry, I’ve already given him more than a few earfuls about it,” Wood sighed.  
  
“So what’s the favor? You want me to play keeper instead of you? I’d get it, facing Jones would be tough.” McLaggen’s face was impassive, but Wood couldn’t help but notice a twinge of excitement in his voice.  
  
“Maybe, but that’s only a backup, really. I have another idea.”  
  
“Yeah? What’s that?”  
  
“Ginny told me a story about Potter and her brother in a game after I graduated; I bet you’ve heard about it. We’re going to trick the team into confidence.”  
  
McLaggen furrowed his brow in thought, then seemed to remember what Wood was referring to. “But what do you need me for? I’m lousy at Potions.”  
  
Wood leaned forward with a grin. “Do you still keep in contact with Professor Slughorn?”


	3. Quidditch Season

Game day. The Cannons were adjusting their padding in the locker room. Everyone was nervous. Wood, who had been in his uniform for two hours already, was filling everyone’s water bottles from the faucet. He leaned over each bottle as he filled and capped it, then stood up with a flourish, handing the bottles around.  
  
“Team, I know this isn’t exactly firewhiskey, but I’d like to propose a toast. We’ve been training hard. We’ve improved. A lot. And I truly believe that if we give it our all out there today, we can win. To victory. To Conquering!”  
  
“We Shall Conquer,” McLaggen said loudly. The others joined him in the cry, clanking their bottles together and taking long swigs. McLaggen grimaced as he swallowed. “I say, this tastes odd. Did you put something in the water?”  
  
“N-no,” Wood stuttered.  
  
McLaggen took an accusatory step forward. “You did, didn’t you? Out with it, what did you do?”  
  
“Nothing, I swear,” Wood said. McLaggen spotted something stinking from Wood’s pocket and grabbed for it. There was a brief struggle for the item before McLaggen spun around, holding a nearly empty vial to the light. “My god. Is that what I think it is?”  
  
The rest of the team clambered over to McLaggen and stared into the vial, where a few drops of golden liquid shimmered and danced along the glass. Most looked perplexed, but Sabine and Aurora both stared as it, slack-jawed.  
“Felix Felicis,” they said in unison. The others, barring Draganov, joined the Lasueurs in their amazement. McLaggen rounded on Wood.  
  
“You dosed us! Do you have any idea how illegal that is? They could have us out of the league for this!”  
  
Wood held his hands up defensively. “I do know exactly how illegal this is; that is to say, technically, not at all. This game doesn’t affect the standings in any way, right? And there’s not any gambling allowed on this match, at least not above the table. So really, there’s no consequences to it. It’s not like we’re hurting anyone. Maybe a few Harpy egos, but they’ll mend quick enough.”  
  
“You slimy git,” McLaggen muttered. “You could have at least told us. Given us the choice of taking it or not.”  
  
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to know. I put so little in that the effects would be diluted, but I just wanted to really make sure that you felt confident going into this.”  
  
Gorgovitch coughed, and everyone turned to face him. “Well,” he said, hesitating slightly at everyone’s gaze, “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I certainly feel good. If it gets out the pre-game jitters, stops me from dropping the Quaffle, I’m not going to complain.” He took another swig from his water bottle for emphasis.  
  
The locker room was silent. The five who hadn’t spoken up stared at each other, wondering who would take which side. Finally, Aurora spoke up. “Damage’s already done. Might as well accept it.” She took a drink. Sabine nodded in agreement and copied her wife.  
  
“No. I’ve already had some, I can’t stop that, but no more,” Etta said. She stalked up to the sink and dumped out her bottle before refilling it with fresh water. “Gudgeon? You with me?”  
  
Galvin shrugged. “Sorry lass. I need all the help I can get.”  
  
Etta grumbled, but before she could say anything else, the buzzer rang above them. “Alright, boys and girls, game time! Let’s go, move it,” Wood shouted.  
  
McLaggen pulled him to the side as everyone grabbed their brooms. “Brilliantly done, Wood. You’d have had a fine career as an actor if you weren’t so obsessed with Quidditch.”  
  
“You weren’t too shabby yourself. How did you get Slughorn to send it to you, anyway?”  
  
“Money, pure and simple. He knowns a few less than reputable places to bet on matches, and I’m sure he’s got a fat stack of galleons riding on this.”  
  
“Well, we’d better win then.”  
  
The two men took the lead out of the locker room. McLaggen lead his head in close and whispered, “We are going to tell them it’s fake, right?”  
  
“Of course, after the game.”  
  
The doors of the hall burst open, spilling light and sound over the team. “Here they are, the Conquerors of the Southland, the Chudleeey Cannooons!!!!”  
  
The crowd erupted into cheers and hisses as the announcer’s voice echoed across the pitch. To the team’s left, the towers were decked in the Harpies’ green and gold, while the right were vividly orange and yellow. The Harpies were already arranged in the center of the pitch. Gwenog Jones stood front and center, her long dark hair tied loosely behind her. The rest of the Cannons stopped ten feet from the center, and Wood stepped forward to join the Harpies’ captain and the referee, an older woman with graying hair and a twice-broken nose. Wood realized with a start that it was the same referee who had been calling his last game with Puddlemere. Gwenog laughed loudly as Wood approached.  
  
“I’d heard you still had those sticking out your head, Wood. I hadn’t actually seen my handiwork up close yet. Must say, I’m quite proud of myself.”  
  
The referee harrumphed, and Gwenog turned her next comment into a small chuckle. “Now, I want a fair game from everyone. If something like that happens again,” she nodded toward Wood’s ears, then glared at both captains, “I’ll vaporize the perpetrator’s broom right out from under them.” Jones put her hand to her chest in mock affront. “Now shake hands, you two.”  
  
Wood and Jones stepped forward. Their hands his together with a loud slap. They gripped hard, each of them trying to pull the other one in, and ending up somewhere in the middle.  
“I’ve got twenty galleons on us scoring three goals in the first ten minutes,” Jones hissed. “Personally, I think we’ll do it in five.”  
  
“Funny, I put the same against that bet,” Wood whispered back. “I think I’ll buy a few Harpies banners with your gold when we win. I’d reckon they burn quite nicely.”  
  
Jones let go of Wood’s hand and spun around, flashing signals to her teammates in the Harpies’ infamously complex hand-code. Wood turned back to his team and gestured the chasers forward for the opening throw with a simply thumb over his shoulder. He took off toward his goals.  
  
Knowing he had another minute before the game began, Wood took a wide swing over the Cannons crowd. They cheered as he passed, and he couldn’t help but smile. In the tower directly to the right of the goalposts, he saw the Potters and the Weasley-Grangers seated next to each other, all wearing orange scarves except Ginny, whose clothing was consciously neutral. Wood had offered both families free tickets all season in exchange for Krum and Ginny’s help. Hermione seemed to be pointedly ignoring the tiny scarf on baby Rose’s shoulders as she held the child. Wood waved to them, and threw in a wink in little James’s direction before flying off. A delighted shout from the lad followed him.  
  
Wood settled in front of the center goalpost, watching the Chasers on the ground and the Beaters circling around them. He saw the glint of the whistle rising to the referee’s mouth…  
  
“AND THEY’RE OFF,” The announcer shrieked. “Harpies get the Quaffle. Passing around quickly, Morgan, Rosier, Navarre, back to Rosier, ooh, narrowly dodged a Bludger there, well hit by Draganov, back to Morgan-“  
  
The three chasers executed a complex formation, ducking over and under each other while rapidly passing the Quaffle, preventing the Cannon’s chasers from getting to it. Poole, the other Harpies beater, viciously deflected any Bludgers coming close after the first. Wood steeled himself to block the incoming shot.  
  
“Oi Wood! Watch your head!”  
  
Wood’s concentration slipped, and he glanced up to see Jones flying to his left, sticking her tongue out at him. The lapse was just enough though, and Wood dived right just too late as Navarre tossed the Quaffle cleanly through the goal.  
“Score for the Harpies,” the announcer cried as the green stands erupted into cheers. Wood, frustrated with himself for falling for such an obvious ploy, grabbed the Quaffle as it fell and tossed it to Rosen.  
  
“We’ve still got this, captain,” she said. “We’ll keep ‘em going point for point.”  
  
She shot off with a shout. The announcer resumed his chattering commentary. “Rosen is off with the Quaffle. Passes to Gorgovitch. Much better form on the approach than I’ve seen from the Cannons before, very impressive. Back to Rosen, up to Lasueur. Back to- oh, no! Bludger from Poole nets a dropped Quaffle from Lasueur. Rosier grab it, ooh! Poole gets her Bludger back in the shoulder courtesy of the other Lasueur, but the Harpies have the Quaffle. Same formation as the last approach. Rosier, Navarre, back to Rosier, Morgan…”  
  
Wood braced once again as the Chasers raced toward him. “Incoming!” Came the shout from his left. Wood ignored her.  
  
_THUNK_. The Bludger hit him squarely in the side, sending him careening right as Morgan darted out from the Harpies’ formation and lazily tossed the Quaffle through the left hoop. “Another goal for the Harpies! Twenty-Nil!” Wood tried to ignore the announcer as he felt his side. It was bruised, but not broken. Aurora pulled up beneath him as she grabbed the Quaffle. “Don’t let the bitch get to you,” she shouted.  
  
“Lasueur with the Quaffle. Gorgovitch, back to Lasueur. Long pass forward to Rosen, nearly grabbed by Rosier. Rosen on her own, fifty yards out, drops low, swings left, feint- BLOCKED by Mansfield!”  
  
A few groans could be heard from the Cannons fans over the cheers of the other side. Wood glanced toward his friends in the crowd as the Harpies started back across the pitch. Ron made a double thumbs-up gesture exuberantly enough for him to see.  
  
“What’s it going to be this time, Woody?” Again, Gwenog hovered to the left of the goalposts. Wood kept one eye on her and one on the approaching chasers, although he didn’t see a nearby Bludger. “You gonna flinch, or do I have to hit you again?”  
  
Wood watched the Harpies’ Chasers approaching, afraid to take his attention off either them or Jones. He knew he had to make a decision, but he was paralyzed. This had never happened to him before while playing Quidditch. Everything came so naturally to him in the air. Every thought flowed more quickly without its tether to the ground. But now his instincts were stuck. He didn’t know what to do.  
  
With a guttural roar, a huge figure flew out from behind the goalposts. Draganov swung his bat hard, slamming a Bludger Wood had completely missed out toward Jones. Her eyes widened and she veered upward, trying to get out of the way. She dodged the Bludger, but the backdraft of it spun her through two backflips before she regained her bearings. Draganov looked at Wood, nodded solemnly, the took off after the Bludger. Wood turned his attention back to the Chasers. They were close. Morgan came in again for the shot. She angled slightly right, then her arm went wide as though to shoot for the left goal. Wood thought he sensed a double feint and pushed his broomstick right. At the last moment, the chaser’s arm came back to aim at the center goal. Wood tried to change his momentum, coming completely off his broom except for one knee hooked around it. He stretched his fingers out as far as they could go.  
  
“BLOCKED by Wood!” The crowd cheered as Wood felt the Quaffle slide into his hand. Then he realized he was falling, and quickly reached his other arm up to his broom before his momentum threw him clean off. He hauled himself back up as Gorgovitch clapped him on the back, holding the Quaffle that had fallen below.  
  
After that, Draganov seemed to have put himself on near-permanent Jones-hunting duty, and Wood was able to play his position in peace. No goals were scored for nearly an hour, before Wood called out to his teammates to pull out the new techniques they had been training on. The Rosen Ruse got a goal, as did _La fleur Lasueur_ and the Dragon’s Breath, in which Draganov simply bowled through the defenders with his immensity while Gorgovitch drafted behind him. Each time, Jones shouted at the referee, insisting that there was some kind of foul involved, but each time the ref ruled in the Cannons’ favor.  
  
“Thirty-twenty Cannons, Harpies with the Quaffle.” The Cannons’ crowd cheered, as they had every time the announcer had mentioned that they were in the lead. “Morgan, Rosier, back to Morgan, ooh, nearly snagged by Rosen. Up to Navarre, going in for the shot. But wait! The seekers are going into a dive!!”  
  
Wood saw Gudgeon from across that pitch, with Haversham, the Harpies’ Seeker, only a broom length behind, closing the gap. He tried to keep his focus on the quickly approaching Navarre. She was focused on the right goalpost, but he knew that was a ruse. He circled just right of center, ready to dive left if the feint came. Navarre’s arm came up to throw, and just as she released, aiming at the left hoop as Wood had expected, both Bludgers came down, striking Wood in the leg and Navarre in the arm. Wood felt his shin crack as he was shunted right and watched the Quaffle sail through the unguarded hoop. From Navarre’s shriek, he suspected her arm had been broken as well. He looked up with a grimace, and saw Sabine looking simultaneously pleased with her hit and worried about Wood. Jones had already sped off, Draganov in hot pursuit. Sabine opened her mouth, but the announcer’s voice drowned it out.  
  
“GUDGEON HAS THE SNITCH!!!!”  
  
Wood’s head shot back across the pitch, where Galvin was flying inches from the ground, having apparently pulled out of a dive at the very last moment. Wood could see the glint of the Snitch in his outstretched hand.  
  
“Navarre scores for the Harpies, but the game is over! One-eighty to thirty, Cannons win!”  
  
For once, the cheers of the orange-clad fans completely enveloped the boos of the green. Wood flew down to the ground and dismounted carefully, using the end of his broom to keep weight off his leg. Galvin, unaware of Wood’s injury, leapt off his broom and wrapped him in a hug. Wood cried out as his broken leg was pushed to the ground. Galvin leapt back in alarm, then, realizing what was happening, hurriedly grabbed Wood’s arm and held him up.  
  
“I did it, Captain! I did it! We did it!”  
  
Wood smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “It’s your margin, Gudgeon. It’s all on you. Good job.”  
  
Sabine had already called over a medical witch, and by the time she had mended his leg, the rest of the team had reached the ground, swarming over each other in a great pile of hugs and cheers and fists pumping in the air. The Cannon’s fans had started to make their way onto the pitch as well, adding to the mayhem. Wood shook the lingering pain from his head and lifted his fist into the air, shouting out with all his strength a call which was taken up across the pitch:  
“We Shall CONQUER!”

  
  


“Eighty-aught Cannons, Kestrels with the Quaffle,” the announcer called. Several months into the season, the Cannons had eleven wins and three losses, bouncing between third and fourth place in the standings. The Quidditch crowd was ablaze with talk of their improvement, and the fair-weather fans (who swore they had always been fans, and had simply been ‘busy’ and unable to attend games for the last twenty years) swelled the ranks to near-bursting. Wood glanced to his right, where Ron Weasley was muttering excitedly with the people around him. The Potters had only attended occasionally, but Weasley had been to every game, always with a guest or two, be it his wife and daughter, a couple grim-faced Auror friends, or, as was the case today, his niece Victoire and Teddy Lupin. The six-year-olds had been watching, mouth agape, all game, but now had their heads together conspiratorially. Teddy’s hair was Cannons orange and sticking up nearly six inches in spikes. Wood returned his attention to the pitch. Possession had changed a couple times, but no one was near the goals.  
  
“Kestrels back with the Quaffle, Davies and Applebee in a spiral formation, Quaffle going back and forth between them.”  
  
Wood steadied himself, feeling that they would get to him this time. Suddenly, just as the chasers reached the scoring zone, Davies threw the Quaffle upward to Jensen, the third chaser, who had been hiding above Wood and to his left. She dived sharply as she grabbed the Quaffle and threw it toward the right goal. Wood rolled hard, stretching out his hand, and managed to just graze the ball with his fingertips. The Quaffle veered slightly off course, and bounced against the ring of the goal before falling. The crowd cheered another good block. As Wood pulled himself back into his seat and the cheers died down, he heard two small voices singing to his right.  
  
“Woulda, coulda shoulda scored, but Wood he holds the door!”  
  
Wood looked over, and saw Teddy and Victoire grimacing and shaking their heads. Apparently they didn’t like that one, but he appreciated the effort.  
  
Another twenty minutes passed. With each shot Wood blocked, the children started up a new version of their song. It seemed their issue was only with the second half of the song, as they tried several variations; ‘he blocks the door’, ‘he guards the door’, even ‘keeps the door shut’ before realizing that that didn’t even rhyme. Finally, as Rosen scored across the pitch, Wood spotted them excitedly pulling at the sleeves of the witches and wizards around them and whispering into their ears as they leaned over to listen. When Davies came in for an easily-blocked shot to the center goal a few minutes later, Wood heard the children sing again, nearly shouting as their excitement grew with every word.  
  
“Woulda, coulda, shoulda scored, but Wood he is the door!”  
  
To Wood’s amazement, Weasley and a dozen other nearby fans stood up, and, in chorus, repeated the line. The children clapped and bounced as they sang along.  
  
“WOULDA, COULDA, SHOULDA SCORED, BUT WOOD HE IS THE DOOR!”  
  
Wood grinned widely as the fans cheered. Several people elsewhere in the crowd were murmuring to each other, seemingly about the song. Maybe it would catch on.  
  
A few minutes later, the Kestrels coach called a time-out. As the Cannons flew down to the pitch for a stretch, McLaggen walked up to Wood, hands in his pockets.  
  
“Not what I might have come up with, but not bad at all,” he said, looking up toward the box where Weasley and the two children were sitting. “What do you think?”  
  
“What, did you get them to do that?” Wood couldn’t help but smirk.  
  
“Well, not directly. I asked Weasley if he had any ideas while he was visiting before the match, and he said he’d set the kids on it. I mean, he had a song back when we played in Gryffindor. He got it despite me being a better player, so I figured, since you’re a better player than me, it was high time.” He blushed a little at the admission that Wood was a better Keeper.  
  
“Well I definitely appreciate it,” Wood said. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around McLaggen. McLaggen stiffed for a moment, then returned the hug with a hesitant slap on the back. Then the whistle blew, and the everyone hurriedly got back on their brooms. As he kicked off, Wood could have sworn that McLaggen was blushing even harder.  
  
The game continued, the Seekers circling quietly above. The Cannons were up 150 to nothing, and with every shot Wood blocked, more and more of the crowd joined in on the children’s song.  
  
“Jensen going wide with the Quaffle. Passes to Applebee, Gorgovitch tries to grab it and nearly takes a Bludger for his trouble. Pass to Davies, who takes off solo, going left, no, right, and it’s blocked by Wood again!”  
  
“WOULDA, COULDA, SHOULDA SCORED, BUT WOOD HE IS THE DOOR!” A full three quarters of the crowd was singing along now.  
  
“Kiely’s dived low! Looks like he’s spotted the Snitch,” the announcer cried, struggling to be heard over the crowd even with his magically amplified voice. “Gudgeon’s on the far side of the pitch, racing after him!”  
  
Wood threw the Quaffle hard to Aurora. “Ignore them! Just get one more goal!” She nodded and streaked off.  
  
“Gudgeon’s catching up, but he’s still a few lengths behind,” the announcer shouted. “Lasueur has got the Quaffle above, headed downfield. Pass to Gorgovitch, up to Rosen – oh, the Seekers are in the supports! I can’t see them! What’s going on?”  
  
The Cannons raced down the field as a unit, the chasers in tight formation as the beaters warded the Kestrels off. Wood felt like he was watching in slow motion from across the pitch. Etta broke away from the group as they approached the goals. Her arm went back, and she threw the Quaffle. The Kestrels’ Keeper dived, but it seemed he was just too late. The ball slipped through his fingers just as an emerald-green form rose into sight holding its hand aloft.  
  
“Kiely has the Snitch! Kestrels get the Snitch, but the Cannons score one more goal! Cannons win, one-sixty to one-fifty, thanks to a shutout performance from Oliver ‘The Door’ Wood!”  
  
Wood groaned inwardly even as his teammates rushed toward him for a midair tackle. The song was all well and good, but he could almost hear the reporter’s quills scratching excitedly over the new nickname.

  
  


The season was over. The teams had done better than anyone could have hoped, ending the season in third place with a nineteen and five record. Now the Cannons were back on the practice pitch, running drills with a vigor that would have destroyed the team they had been only a few months ago. Wood was filled with pride every time his teammates scored on him. Not that they managed it too often. He had improved quite a lot himself, managing to play three more shutout matches since he had gotten the nickname ‘The Door’. He still didn’t know how he felt about that, but it was far too difficult to get rid of now, so he might as well accept it.  
  
A figure Wood did not recognize was striding along the pitch. Something about it made him uneasy. “McLaggen, take the goal. I’m going to check on whoever this is.”  
  
He flew down, realizing as he approached why the sharp figure had filled him with apprehension.  
  
“Oliver Wood,” crooned Rita Skeeter, her quill already out and scribbling. “Or do you prefer your new nickname? “  
  
“Wood is fine,” he said stiffly as he dismounted.  
  
“Now now, no need to be rude. Do those things in your ears have anything to do with your nickname? I wouldn’t think you could do any better than Wood with those. Quite the twist of irony there.”  
  
“Considering it was made up by a couple of kids, I wouldn’t know.” His hand went up to touch the branches. Their leaves had turned orange in the October chill.  
  
“Ah, yes, the adopted Potter and the quarter-werewolf. Very interesting themselves, but not what I’m here for.” Wood grimaced as Skeeter spoke, wishing he hadn’t mentioned them. He’d need to send an apology to Bill Weasley if the article was unpleasant. “What are you here for?”  
  
Skeeter shook a piece of parchment under Wood’s nose. “To ask how you felt about facing the Harpies in the first round of the finals. And to learn more about you, of course. A nobody from Puddlemere, suddenly turned hero of the league, bringing the laughingstock of the English Quidditch world into something approaching respectability. What’s your secret? Hexes? Bribery? Sleeping with the referees? Sleeping with your teammates?” She raised an eyebrow questioningly.  
  
Wood grabbed the parchment Skeeter was holding. “How the bloody hell did you get this. The announcement of the bracket isn’t for two more days!”  
  
“I have my sources,” Skeeter said, even as Wood spotted her quill scribbling nervous and unprepared. He took a deep, deliberate breath, before the rest of her earlier questions caught up to his thought process. “Wait, what was that last question you asked?”  
  
Skeeter grinned widely and took a step toward him. “Ah, it’s your teammates, then. But which one, then? Not the Lasueurs, although that would be juicy. Rosen, then?”  
  
“No, I- I mean, I’m not-“  
  
“Ooh, unless it’s not the women!” She started walking around him as she continued, talking to herself as though he had stopped existing. “Not the Bulgarian brute, I’d think. Unless that was a means to get to Krum. He did come in for a ‘training session’ once, and he has been seen at one game this season. Not likely, though. His tastes are well documented. That leaves the Russian, the Seeker, and the backup Keeper.” He eyes sparkled as she finished her lap and turned to face him. “Of course. The handsome, well connected Keeper, taken down a peg by the appearance of a new Keeper, agrees to step down only exchange for a few ‘favors’. Very interesting.”  
  
Wood was reduced to sputters, unable to come up with a retort. How could anyone even think about that sort of thing when there was Quidditch to be played?  
  
“Well, that was quite an enlightening interview. Thank you very much, Mr. Wood. You’ll be seeing the article by the end of the week, no doubt.” She turned and strode away, leaving Wood standing alone, dumbfounded.  
  
As Skeeter vanished from sight, Rosen and McLaggen flew down to check on Wood. “Was that Rita Skeeter,” Etta asked. “What did that hag want?  
  
“I’m not really sure,” Wood said, shaking the last of the confusion away. “She gave me the bracket two days in advance, then asked me about my love life.” He handed the parchment over to Rosen. She and McLaggen looked at it eagerly.  
  
“Knowing how she usually operates, I’d almost call that a favor,” McLaggen said. “Don’t fancy playing the Harpies first round though. The matches have only gotten nastier all season. You gonna be alright facing them, Captain?”  
  
“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” Wood said. He turned to look at McLaggen. “Just for the record, though, I think Skeeter’s going to publish something. I think she’s going to suggest that we’re, er, I mean that the two of us are… an item?”  
  
Laughter burst from Rosen’s mouth before she could cover her it with her hand, and she quickly took a few steps away. McLaggen looked as dumbfounded as Wood had felt earlier for a moment, then blushed slightly. “Well, um, I guess we’ll just deal with that when we get to it, won’t we?” His face reddened more, and he looked away. “Are we getting back to practice, then?”  
  
Wood looked up to the others, then shook his head. “No, we’ve done good today, I think. We can call it in early. I’m not going to practice productively after that.”  
  
“Oh, well, alright then. See you tomorrow, I suppose.”  
  
McLaggen started toward the locker rooms, and Wood watched him go, even more confused than he had been earlier.


	4. The Finals

Bludgers flew through the air like hexes. Wood was pretty sure a few hexes had flown as well, but none of them had connected yet, so no fouls had been called.  
  
“Eighty-ten Cannons, Rosen with the Quaffle,” the announced called. The crowd cheered. Wood was glad to be playing on their own pitch this time. It lessened the tension. Slightly.  
  
“Dodges a Bludger there, pass to Gorgovitch, he makes for the goalposts, throws right-no! feints the throw, then slaps it left with his broom! Goal for the Cannons, ninety to ten!”  
  
The crowd roared. Wood watched his surroundings carefully. Jones had been hitting Bludgers at his since the game started, often when there was no reason to hit them his way. He spotted her halfway across the pitch, looking displeased, but not after him at the moment.  
  
“Rosier with the Quaffle. Pass to Morgan, down to Navarre, stolen by Lasueur- oh! No, a graze from the Bludger makes her drop it, Navarre gets it back. Back to Rosier, Navarre, Morgan. Morgan headed for the goal, throws – blocked handily by Wood!”  
“WOULDA, COULDA, SHOULDA SCORED, BUT WOOD HE IS THE DOOR!”  
  
Wood grinned as he tossed the Quaffle to Rosen. That song was the best mental game he could have hoped for. It was like having an eighth man on the field, spurring them on while demoralizing the enemy. He could even take the nickname if this was the result of it. Rosen sped off, grinning back at him.  
  
“Rosen with the Quaffle. Pass to Lasueur, who tosses it up. Draganov slaps it downfield with his bat, Rosen catches it well ahead of the Harpies Chasers. Rosen alone to the goal. Will she do it? Yes, there it is, the Rosen Ruse! Two brooms, two throws, Mansfield dives left, wrong choice! The real Rosen goes right, scores another easy goal for the Cannons!”  
  
“ENOUGH.”  
  
Wood looked up as saw Gwenog Jones bearing down on him from above. He started to spin away before realizing that there wasn’t a Bludger in sight. There was, however, a globe of light, about twenty feet across, cutting them off from the rest of the field. He could hear the announcer shouting in confusion, but couldn’t catch the words. Jones’ wand was out, her face painted with malice.  
  
“I have had enough of Oliver. Bloody. Wood.” The hexes started spewing from Jones’ wand. Wood barely managed to dodge the first as he pulled his own wand from his pocket and deflected the next one. “You show up out of nowhere, beat us over and over, AND you have the nerve to use my former teammate as a trainer. Enough! I’m done with you. I’m going to hex those branches back off your ears, then leave you in pieces!”  
  
Wood desperately beat away each curse and hex as it was hurled. In his peripheral vision, he saw shadows on the other side of the globe, trying to get in, but Jones had locked them in here tight. He struggled to do anything but defend, trying to think of anything he could do to stop her. Nothing he could say or do would reduce her anger. Would he have to try and jinx her back? He had never been a great duelist.  
  
Suddenly a thought occurred to him as he dodged behind the goalposts. He couldn’t reduce her rage, but how could she be angry if she didn’t remember it?  
  
“OBLIVIATE!”  
  
The burst of white light from his wand struck Jones in the chest just as a bolt of blue light struck him. The globe dissipated as the two of them fell off their brooms. There was a collective gasp around him, but Wood couldn’t think straight. He felt a cushion of air below him as he reached the ground, and he rolled onto the grass. He lay on the ground, trying to get his bearings, but could feel himself losing consciousness. Before he blacked out, he saw Jones being held up by a teammate. She was looking up at the brooms above her. The last thing he heard was Jones saying, “Look like fun. What’s it called?”

  
  


Wood’s eyes flew open to see the wallpaper of St. Mungo’s. For a panicked moment he thought that the season had been a wild dream, and he was still recovering from Jones’ first attack. But as he turned his head he saw the entire Cannons team hurrying toward him. They all started speaking at once. Wood winced and they were silent. He reopened his eyes and pointed toward Rosen and McLaggen on his left. “What happened?”  
  
“The healers still haven’t figured out what Jones hit you with, but there doesn’t appear to be anything permanent this time,” Etta said.  
  
“If they ever pumped that madwoman for the hexes she’s invented, the list of unforgivable curses would be twelve pages long,” McLaggen added. Wood noticed that McLaggen’s hand was on his arm. “Did you mean to do that to her?”  
  
“Do what? The memory charm?”  
  
“Yeah. She still knows who she is and all, but she’s completely forgotten about Quidditch.”  
  
Wood gulped. “That was not what I’d meant to do. I just wanted her to forget who I was so she’s stop trying to hex me.”  
  
“Well you certainly did that,” Etta said with a chuckle. Gudgeon added, “She’s in a ward down the hall. Healers think she’ll get that knowledge back eventually, but who knows how long that’ll take.”  
  
“What about the match?”  
  
“Well, after the both of you were carted off, the referee gave us two penalty shots and the Harpies one,” Etta said. “With both captains down, though, no one really wanted to keep playing. So since I was acting Captain, I asked Morgan if she was willing to call it there, and she agreed. One-twenty to ten, Cannons win.”  
  
“Brilliant,” Wood said. “So who’s next? Ballycastle?” There was an awkward silence in the room. “What? Please don’t tell me I’ve been unconscious for a month again.”  
  
“Only a week this time,” McLaggen said, squeezing his hand. “We managed to beat Ballycastle without you.”  
  
“Bloody tight game,” Sabine said. “You’d have only let in half those goals, if that.  
  
McLaggen looked annoyed, but didn’t say anything. Aurora chimed in, “Luckily Galvin nabbed the Snitch and bailed us out. Two-eighty to two-sixty for us.”  
  
Wood sat up, waving the team off as a wave of nausea hit him. “We’re in the finals then.” He grinned weakly. “We’ve almost done it. Who are we playing? Montrose?”  
  
“No, they actually got upset,” Etta said.  
  
“Who then?”  
  
There was another pause as everyone looked at each other. McLaggen finally broke the silence.  
  
“Your old team. Puddlemere United.”

  
  


Drums pounded outside the door to the pitch as the Chudley Cannons waited for their entrance. They stood in a V, Wood in front with a grim expression on his face. He had managed to get back on his broom for practice two days after he had awoken, and was finally feeling like himself again. He glanced to his teammates behind him, who were looking equally focused.  
  
“And now, the finalists no one expected, looking for their first title in a hundred and fourteen years, the Chudley Cannons!”  
  
The doors burst open and the crowd let out a tumultuous roar as Wood led the Cannons onto the pitch, their strides carefully measured to keep their formation. The stopped just outside the center with military precision.  
“Captains forward,” the referee called. Wood stepped forward, as did Imelda Haversham, Puddlemere United’s captain.  
  
“Good to see you’re well, Wood. I’d heard what Jones did to you in the quarterfinal. Terrible,” she tutted as she extended her hand.  
  
“It certainly hurt, but I’m back, and here to win,” Wood said as he shook.  
  
“If you say so.”  
  
“May the best man win.”  
  
“Best woman,” she corrected, before turning on her heel.  
  
Wood turned to face his team as the Chasers stepped forward for the throw. He clapped Etta on the shoulder as she passed. “Let’s try that new play to start, shall we?” Etta grinned in agreement. As he mounted his broom, Wood looked over to Draganov. “Play thirty-five.” Draganov nodded curtly.  
  
Flying to the goalposts, Wood watched the teams prepare to start. The noise from the crowd was so deafening he was surprised the announced hadn’t thrown up a Muffling charm yet. Perhaps he wasn’t skilled enough to put one over the entire pitch. Still, someone should.  
  
“Our referee for tonight’s game, Kayla Llewellyn, ready to start the match. The whistle’s blown, aaaand they’re off! The Quaffle’s bouncing around, Cannons, United, no, Cannons – wait! That bounce off of Rosen’s broom was a pass! Draganov has the Quaffle! The Cannons Beater has the Quaffle, folks! Can he do that?” There was a brief scuffle of sound from the press box as the Puddlemere fans jeered, but the referee’s whistle didn’t blow. “Well apparently he can, and it doesn’t look like anyone’s stopping him. Griffiths and Haversham trying to push him off course, but he’s bigger than both of them put together. My god, was that a Bludger that just bounced off him? Are we sure they didn’t put a troll on the Cannon’s squad?”  
  
Draganov flew straight onwards to the goalposts, swatting at a second Bludger hit his way with his free hand. MacNair, Puddlemere’s keeper, sat stock-still for a moment as Draganov flew toward him, then started to go to his right, where Draganov was headed. He then seemed to reconsider and dodged upward out of the way to avoid a collision, but Draganov flew smoothly past and tossed the Quaffle through the empty goalpost.  
  
“Goal for the Cannons!” The announcer manager to sound both excited and confused. “First goal for the Cannons scored by the Beater Draganov! Doesn’t look like there’s going to be any fouls called. According to our resident experts here in the box, that is a legal maneuver, if a risky one, as it leaves the Bludgers in the other team’s control.” The cheers and jeers from the two sides of the crowd only grew more frantic with these statements.  
  
MacNair had tossed the Quaffle to Griffiths, who had soared high above the goals along with he fellow chasers. Sabine launched a Bludger toward them, but it changed course, seeming to prefer easier prey at a reasonable altitude. As they reached the halfway point of the pitch, they dived steeply toward the goals, gaining incredible speed as they did. The Quaffle was handed between them as they dived, as they were moving too fast to pass it freely. As they approached, Haversham, clutching the Quaffle, split from the group toward Wood.  
  
“Haversham positively streaking toward the goal, can barely even see her, and it’s BLOCKED! How could he even see that?”  
  
“WOULDA, COULDA, SHOULDA SCORED, BUT WOOD HE IS THE DOOR!” the crowd’s chant drowned out any further speculation. Wood laughed as Haversham pulled up behind the goal. “Can’t pull that one on me! You perfected it against me, I should bloody well know how to stop it!” Haversham grimaced and flew off as Wood tossed the Quaffle to Rosen. As his side of the pitch cleared, Wood took a deep breath. Hopefully his bravado discouraged her from trying that again, because his block had been pure dumb luck.  
  
From there, the game turned into a long, slow grind. The chasers maneuvered in the middle of the pitch, only occasionally getting to either goal with all the steals and re-steals that were happening. Five hours later, the score was only one-sixty to one-thirty. Wood shifted on his broom, uncomfortably aware of the fact that the Snitch was going to be the deciding factor in this match unless something went terribly wrong for one of the teams.  
  
“Gorgovitch breaks out of the pack, making a go for the goal. Center goal, no feints left – blocked by MacNair!”  
  
The crowd cheered and booed appropriately, but it was quieter than if had been at the start of the match. Wood suspected they had worn their voices out sometime in the third hour. A cold wind blew through the pitch, bringing with it a flurry of snowflakes. Wood shivered and pulled out his wand to cast a protective charm. The branches, now devoid of leaves, gave him headaches whenever he was out in the cold too long.  
  
Within minutes the wind had turned itself into a howling gale, and the snowflakes into a near-blizzard. The referee had allowed a moment for everyone to cast protective charms on themselves, but ruled that play would go on.  
  
“Can anyone see what the bloody hell is going on?” The announcer sounded supremely annoyed. “Well, the counter on the goals just flipped, so I guess the Cannons scored? One-seventy to one-thirty!” The crowd, unable to see anything, cheered with confusion in their collective voice.  
  
For twenty minutes, the storm raged, and it didn’t seem like it would be stopping anytime soon. Ghostly Chasers materializing from the snow managed to score three goals against Wood, but the cannon scored two more of their own, keeping their narrow lead. During a period of silence, as Wood peered out toward the center of the pitch, Galvin flew up to him, wiping snow off his goggles.  
  
“I’m never going to find the bloody Snitch in this weather,” he shouted. Wood felt for him, but it wasn’t like there was much he could do. “Just keep an eye out, and try not to freeze,” he said. “Hopefully the storm will clear sooner rather than later. Or maybe you’ll just get lucky.”  
  
Galvin nodded, swatting another flurry of snow away from his face. Then he froze, staring at his hand.  
  
“What’s the matter, Gudgeon?”  
  
Galvin slowly turned his palm toward Wood to reveal the Snitch held between his fingers. “I didn’t even see it,” he said. “I just-“  
  
“It doesn’t matter how you caught it,” Wood said, breath catching in his throat. “It’s done. You’ve done it.”  
  
“But no one saw me. Would it even count?”  
  
“Of course it does. Only question is how to show everyone.”  
  
They stared at each other for a moment in contemplation. “I suppose I could just go knock on the window to the box,” Galvin said. “Would that be dramatic enough?”  
  
“It’ll do. We’re not here for the drama, we’re here for the win.” Galvin grinned at this and flew off.  
  
“Five minutes since the last time I said this, but I still can’t see a bloody thing,” the announcer mumbled. “No scores since the last check in.” There was a short pause, then the announcer perked up. “Who’s that knocking? Someone come to tell us they’re postponing the match at last? Wait, no, it’s not the door, it’s the window. Someone unfog it, quick.” The gasp of the press box filled the air. “IT’S GUDGEON! HE HAS THE SNITCH,” the announcer roared. The crowd was silent, perplexed by what they had just heard. “GUDGEON HAS THE SNITCH! THE GAME IS OVER! CANNONS WIN THE CUP!”  
  
The crowd rumbled, building excitement and understanding into a sonic blast of exultation so loud Wood nearly lost balance. He dived down toward the ground, skimming a foot above the snow, looking for his teammates in the storm. He found Etta, and hugged her as she shrieked in glee. He found Aurora and Sabine, hugged them both at once. He found Gudgeon with Draganov and Gorgovitch, and all three smaller men were wrapped up in the same embrace from Draganov and lifted a foot above the ground. All the while, the announcer shouted “Cannons win the Cup! It’s over!” As though repeating it to convince himself.  
  
Finally, still teetering from Draganov’s bone-crushing squeeze, Wood found McLaggen, and suddenly their lips were touching, ruddy hands against frozen cheeks, breathing in each other’s breaths. “Cannons win the cup! CANNONS WIN THE CUP!!”  
The snow lifted as the men broke apart. Someone had finally summoned up the strength to deflect the snow from the entire pitch. The crowd, now finally able to see their team, erupted in a fresh wave of cheers and whoops. Wood raised his hands high, still held in McLaggens’.  
  
They had done it.  
  
They had won.  
  
He had won.  
  
He had conquered.


End file.
